"You'd say that about anything I wear," Yseult replies, waving away his offer of the coat. "I know how it looks. It doesn't best flatter my complexion, especially that shade. It makes me look flushed."

"And whether I care for red is beside the point," she reminds him. There is a rack in a corner of the room, a number of other pieces of various cuts and fabrics hung from it, in a spectrum of shades: deep emerald green and a brighter forest, a few different blues and teals, a range of greys from the pale shade accenting his current outfit all the way to pure black, a wine-dark burgundy, tan like dry sand, even touches of silver and pale gold. Nothing has been said of them, but Yseult brushes fingers along a cuff or two in passing to collect her bag. "You are the one who needs to wear more colors, not me."